With the pages tucked away, he walked from the study, careful to ensure that he wasn't being watched. He closed the door behindhim, careful to conceal the click of the latch. Then, he headed to the courtyard.
Once outside, he took a moment to look over the scene. The men of Clan McDonald moved as one. They trained hard, exchanging blows with steady 'clicks' of their training swords. What was most impressive, though, was the fact that they'd taken to getting their drills completed without the presence of a leader.
"Ach," he called, stepping into the yard. "Ye will give me an update on yer progress."
"And why would we?" the man closest to him, one who was often stationed as a gate guard, asked. "Where is Laird McDonald?"
"He's put me in charge for the time bein'." The reply, the lie, came easily. At this point, he'd already accepted it as truth. "Now… What are ye doin'? I'd like an update to be informed. Ye never ken when ye might need to mobilize."
The guard looked torn, his loyalty clearly still entrusted to Laird McDonald. But after searching his eyes and finding nothing, the guard began to speak. Through the briefing, the other men glanced their way. Clearly, they were trying to wrap their minds around his newfound authority.
It's best if ye get used to it. Before long, ye'll be callin' me Laird McDonald.
"Very good," he said when the guard finished his report. "Ye'll need to focus more on yer attackin' than yer defendin'. Ye daenae want to find yerself in a battle with nay an idea on how to win."
"That's nae what Laird McDonald wants?—"
"Did I ask ye what he wants?" he interjected, stepping forward so he was chest to chest with the guard. Even though the guard clearly wanted to fight back, he wouldn't. Not when he was perceived as the leader. "While I am overseein', ye will do as ye're ordered."
He may as well be dancing on a knife's edge with how sharp the moment felt.Thiswould be where he proved that he was capable. If this guard, who was as loyal as all the men should be to their Laird, accepted his order, then no one else would dare question that this was his rightful title.
"Aye, sir," the guard finally said, taking a step away but keeping his head held high. "We will run through our offensive drills."
After a long moment of fire-spitting eye contact, the guard turned back to the rest of the men. And, just as he said he would, he cried out, getting his militia's attention. Then, just as he had ordered, the sparring became more aggressive, the men grunting as their bodies clashed.
Ach, would ye look at that? All of them doin' this simply because I gave the word. Just imagine what I could have them doin' all by willin' it to be.
An hour passed as he stood watching. Soon, these men would be completely his. After years of being the perfect assistant, providing invaluable counsel and watching the Laird make the wrong decisions, he would be leading this clan in the right direction.
Not only that, but he was living more lavishly than he ever had before. Even now, his own comfort had increased exponentially. Years of being beaten into the proper young man by his parents, the death of his father—these now felt like distant echoes in the grand scheme of his life.
When he was pleased with the men, their drills looking just as aggressive as he thought they ought to, he walked away. As the acting Laird of this castle, it was his responsibility to ensure that all of the functions were operating properly. He also couldn't contain his desire to see this place through the eyes of a leader.
They daenae even ken that I am in charge now, yet they work tirelessly.
As he strolled through the castle, a smile touched his lips. Even if Hugh returned, this place would continue to belong to him. There were ways to ensure that his title would be stripped from him. And this, disappearing without alerting the council, was a large stain upon Hugh's record. In turn, the fact that he was not the one stepping up was preferable to any council's recommendation.
Ach, Hugh. Ye're too impulsive. Ye are nae always right, and bein' the Laird doesnae mean ye're free to do as ye please. Ye still have so much to learn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hugh sat with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Vincent, the archbishop issuing the marriage license. He was wiry and red-faced, seemingly intimidated by Hugh's presence. If it weren't for the fact that he'd given them unfortunate news, Hugh may have enjoyed the squirming.
"Three days," Hugh said, each word coming out like a knife. "It will take three days for the document to be ready?"
"Yes," Vincent said, looking around the drawing room where the meeting had been set up. "But it will take more than three days to prepare a wedding. You'll need to set up a church, plan the ceremony, issue invitations, find proper attire, and approve a menu. That doesn't include having banns read every Sunday for three weeks prior to your union."
Hugh grumbled to himself, glancing over at Anna. She was listening to everything Vincent said, holding onto each word.It was clear that she was already planning everything, making notes and designing her perfect wedding in her mind.
"We willnae have a ceremony," he grunted. "I cannae stay in England much longer. Ideally, we'd have the license finalized and then leave today."
"Hugh!" Anna gasped, looking at him as though she couldn't believe he wouldn't want to stay here. "We cannot rush our wedding. There will be people who'd like to attend the ceremony. Do you not wish to celebrate our union afterward with a wedding breakfast?"
He barked out a humorless laugh. "Nay," he said. "I daenae care to celebrate here. If ye'd truly like a celebration, I can arrange a ceilidh when we get to Scotland. We can invite yer faither and anyone else ye wish to celebrate with."
"So you would have them travel?" she shot back, crossing her arms in a mirror of Hugh's posture. "We are right here. There is no reason that we shouldn't celebrate with them in England."
Vincent seemed to shrink further into his seat, the redness on his face getting more severe. It was as though he sensed that this battle would become more intense. Yet, politeness bound him to his seat, trapping him in the crossfire.
